


never saw a wild thing sorry for itself

by mirrorchord



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: D/s undertones, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:36:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5738650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorchord/pseuds/mirrorchord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate Fick has a temper, under that hard self-control. Brad is there for when that self-control cracks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never saw a wild thing sorry for itself

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Generation Kill belongs to its copyright owners. One Bullet Away belongs to Nathaniel Fick. Title is from “Self-Pity” by D. H. Lawrence. The real people upon which the story is based belong to themselves, and the depictions herein have no bearing on their real lives. No disrespect meant to our men and women in uniform.

 

_I wanted to do something so hard that no one could ever talk shit to me.  
_ _In Athens or Sparta, my decision would have been easy. I felt as if I had been born too late.  
There was no longer a place in the world for a young man who wanted to wear armor and slay dragons._  
— Nathaniel Fick, _One Bullet Away_

Nate Fick has a temper, under that hard self-control. Brad always knew he had it in him. You don’t become an infantry officer without learning how to harness your own potential for anger, and use it in the service of God, Corps, and Country. Brad Colbert’s not fool enough to believe anyone is a successful Marine without something a bit unwholesome in their gut.

He’s just waiting for Fick to crack.

When the LT snaps at Gunnery Sergeant Griego, all fire and spit, “you do not speak unless you are spoken to,” Brad can’t help the gratified warmth that spreads through him. It’s not that he wanted Fick to be angry, it’s—well. There are few enough officers that Brad truly respects, and it’s nice to see one of them take the lead for a change. Brad has to fight the urge to fall in a step behind and to the right, stare at Griego to get the point across: my officer is better than yours.

He falls in once Fick walks away, instead; his pace is sharper and quicker than usual, the authority radiating off him in ways he usually dampens with wisdom and mercy and all the usual “good leader” bullshit he tries so hard to embody. Brad is almost never intimidated by officers—he usually doesn’t respect them enough. Right now, though, his gut is clenched and his fingertips tingle with the need to placate, to show Fick that his platoon is behind him. The part of Brad that he called upon to make himself the ideal Recon Marine, the part that got a thrill from putting everything he had into following orders worth obeying, would do anything Fick told him to right now. It’s been a long time since that part of him was satisfied.

Fick rounds the corner around the back of Bravo Two’s tent and stops, hands at his sides and breathing loose. He turns to Brad. The adrenaline is still in his eyes, in the way he holds his head. “Brad—” his mouth quirks, too hard to be a real smile—“I’m not exactly fit for polite company right now.”

Brad tilts his head back, acknowledging, and drops gracefully to sit with his back against the tent. It’s not quite as presumptuous as going to his knees, as traditional declarations of fealty go. “Good thing I’m not polite company, sir,” he says, lightly.

Fick stares at him. Brad can see the gears turning, the “I’m not sure what you think you’re doing following me right now, Colbert, but I’m more likely to lash out at you than anything else and you don’t deserve that,” passing behind his eyes and then being discarded. Fick has no energy to be _careful_ right now.

Good.

“Stand up,” Fick says.

Brad does. His heart rate jumps; the careful levity of his expression drops.

“The first rule of drill is ‘don’t anticipate,’ Sergeant,” Fick says, sharp.

Brad goes to attention without thinking.

“What did I _just say_.”

Brad breathes in shallowly. That was wrong; he anticipated. That was right; attention was the starting position. “Sir,” he says.

“Pre-sent arms,” Fick says, quietly. Brad salutes. Fick grabs his arm mid-air, twists it behind his back, spins him and shoves him to the ground. Brad bends his neck, gasping.

“Sir—fuck—”

“Quiet.”

Fick’s other hand curls around his neck, where his nape meets his shoulder. One knuckle digs in beside his throat; his thumb rests lightly on the bone at the top of his spine.

“You’re a good team leader, Brad,” Fick says, and without any call for it, Brad’s eyes prickle.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I know I can count on you to follow orders.”

_Yes._ That was the point of this. “Yes, sir.”

“Sometimes too well.”

Brad inhales. Only for you, he thinks, and tucks that away immediately before it slips out. Fick can probably see it in his face, anyway. Clearly. God, he never expected to be so thoroughly caught out.

Fick lets go of him. “Go ahead, then,” he says. “Go back to your platoon. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Brad looks up at him—that’s it?—and pushes himself to his feet, the ghost of his LT’s fingers still burning at the back of his neck. Fick looks at him, knowing.

“Yes, sir,” Brad says. “Good night.”

Fick breathes in deep and watches him go.

**

Brad smiles at him in the morning, hands him a cup of coffee from Rudy’s daily pot. The cup burns as their hands touch. Fick looks at him, serious, and says, “Thank you.”


End file.
